Phobos
by Figures
Summary: Isn't her phobos reasonable, in her case?


Phobos means fear in Latin. A haunting truth creeping in thought. No matter how one may deny it, they are afraid. Of starvation? Rats? Heights? Dying? It is underlying concern. Despite any current thoughts they may flicker through one's head. It still remains.

Enclosed space, unknown location. Sharp objects illuminated in a dim light. Small movements making ear-shattering noises. Metallic restrictions. Encased in a possible tomb.  
>Isn't her phobos reasonable in her case? Dark, noisy, small, constricting, and threatening?<br>Her mind is heavy in panic, as is her limbs. She pulls on her restrictions, is one of them loose? She strains and grunts and groans against them. One around her skull, one on the hips, two on both her arms and legs. Are they thin or thick? She pants, trying to focus on the one on her right hand. Can she…?  
>More noise! Another ache to her mind. A clink and a swish. They're moving! She's moving!<br>She forcefully pulled on that exact moment. Hitting the other side of her container. Her nose cries, but she ignores it. She has bled before. No phobos.  
>Her hands move blindly, searching for purchase. A grip, handle. Exit. She brushes against a crevasse, something hidden punctures her palm. A reflex causes a worse wound. Pain shoots from her distressed flesh. But she can't answer its call.<p>

No. Escape.  
>Escape from your tomb, Courier. Destiny has other plans for you.<p>

Her container awakens, her hands once again drawn back. Bright lights blind her! She sees nothing yet again. But wait. Noise squeaks and moans in the recesses that are her ears. She slaps her head, feeling her life stream from her fingers. She closes her eyes. Squints them tight. Phobos fills her, phobos of this change.  
>The light dims. The noise stops. She feels no movement. She waits. Warmth spreading from her nose and hand… Can she?<br>Her eyelids slowly relax. Her vision is filled with light, filtered through the thin pink flap of skin. And her eyes open.

Bright! Still bright! Close your eyes again!  
>Oh, relief…<br>It hurts, doesn't it, Courier? Alas. You must do it again.

She opens her right eye cautiously, squinting. Blue and grey shapes fade in and out of focus. And now her left opens. No squinting. But she cowers, still.  
>Slowly reverting to a standing position, and releasing her raw head, she drops her heavy arms.<br>She blinks. And steps forward. But her leg is dull. It quickly drops without her intention. She stumbles forward, landing on her knees, arms too leaden to catch her. She falls.

Your nose took the blow of the fall, as did your  
>Are you sobbing, Courier?<p>

Her cries echo around her agonised frame. Sharp noises crawl out of her throat, a gasp interrupting for breath. She lies there on her stomach for an age, until her throat turns tender. Silence racks her body, every movement causes pain. A twitch is equal to a fire burning through her. Phobos of moving soon consumes her.

Move, Courier. Move!

She can't even think. Throbs contort her thoughts, disorganising them. She felt removed. Pain preoccupied her, anyway. But she could do something. She could remember isomethings/i. Sharp and pointy, they should have induced phobos. But they were lifesaving. Mindsaving.  
>But she needed to find them.<br>Her eyes opened again, used to the intense light. She sought her saviour. A green cross standing apart from a white background. But something glared at her in all directions. Unable to see more than a foot in front of her.  
>She looked instead to her red hand. Moving it created even whiter sparks in her head, but she pursued. She carefully moved her hands to push her torso up from the unforgiving floor, using her legs to steady herself, eventually extending them and lifting herself. She was upright.<br>She held her arms out to keep her balance, standing for a minute. Phobos of falling. Her hurting eyes scanned her shining surroundings, albeit carelessly. Another solid cage to escape from.  
>Glowing table in the centre, she mustn't walk into it.<br>Two doorways, Irrelevant.  
>Ah! But there protrudes her saviour!<p>

How are you going to get over there, Courier?  
>You can do this.<p>

Her heaving breaths grew regulated. She looked down to her feet, her left in front of her right. She focused, putting all her power to her legs. Right in front of the left. Then the left in front of the right. Slowly and carefully stepping, and only looking up to see if her saviour hadn't disappeared.  
>It hadn't. Its brilliant green cross still gleaming. It was only a metre away. She forgot to look for the ledge that held her from it.<br>She felt daggers dance frantically up her spine; a ragged gasp rang through her new solid prison. In an attempt to prevent a fall, her legs twisted, and her arms shot out painfully, grasping onto the closest railing. Her legs collapsed, and she fell anyway, Liquid fire poured from her shoulders for supporting her. Her red hand slips, weak, as does its pair.  
>She has no more noises. Her agony is too great. Her face instead contorts into a beastly, grotesque sign of horror. A silent cry informing more than any verbal one did.<p>

You are capable of many things, Courier. Impossible things.

Her faint mind instructed her. Inhale, exhale. Concentrate.  
>Sparks flashed in brilliant patterns in her head. Her empty head. Her immune system created a blissfully soft hum that hovered in an area just inside her ear. She could smell the rusty tang of her life running from her nose, down her chin.<p>

Think otherwise! Small feelings. Small thoughts.  
>Surely you can look up, Courier?<p>

A remote thought nagged at the base of her thoughts. Maybe there was still a chance.  
>She would fall anyway. She would fall again and again, wouldn't she?<br>Her expression relaxed somewhat. Being only beastly this time. Inhale and exhale. Sandpaper rasped instead of her mouth. It was getting harder to even do that. Phobos of breathing?

Look _up_, Courier!

Her sandpaper mouth snarled, her head twisting. Looking up.  
>Her saviour, standing proud and ready.<br>She used her normal hand to once again grab the foreboding railing, her red one following. One last, desperate spurt of strength, and she could reach it. A molten wave of torment spilled from the pits of her torso, a shriller noise erupting from her. She swung her legs in front of her.  
>Red splatters and bright sparks still plagued her sight. Her ears filled with a buzzing anticipation. Her mouth quivered at the prospect.<br>She got up.  
>A dislocated scream scarcely reached her ears. Blistering pain shuddered throughout her entire self.<br>She picked her red hand up, dripping and twitching, and slammed it into her saviour. Now proud and red-y. Her wavering touch flittered around its top, until she found its clip.  
>She drew it open quickly. Three vials. A small foreign feeling surpassed her ones of pain. Relief?<br>She ripped the syringes from their place, and she slid back to her place on the floor. The fall didn't hurt this time.

Success.

She tore the caps off with her yellowed teeth, spitting them in some irrelevant direction. She had to focus on injection. She chose to use a healer first. Her blearing eyes searched her red arm, for a scar. A small round point, where her vein just seemed to touch the surface. She didn't delay.  
>The needle skewered her as if nothing was between it and its target, and she forced the plunger down as quickly as possible. She groaned and the gauge on top read empty.<br>A familiar and reassuring warmth spread throughout her. Curls reached her shoulders, tingling just below her skin. She grunts as the curls reached her red hand. They repair her hand, albeit slowly. It stitches her wounds together, using a native suture and glue. She makes sure to stretch her hand; to be sure the resulting scar won't forever leave her hand curled and worthless.  
>She picks up the thinner syringe, an anaesthetic. With the same speed, she injects it into her healing system. A cooler curl.<br>She then picked up her final healer, and brushes it against her neck. She needs to use this one before the soothing curl reaches her mind. She plunged it into the base of her neck, a place once ticklish to the smallest of stimulus, now toughened by scars. She immediately felt it coil around her broken nose.

Now sit and heal, Courier. You're needed soon.

A clash of curls left her dizzy, her head needed to rest on the wall she was leaning on. Her dulled senses examined her new container. Still metal. Still cold. But large. Lighted. No phobos to be held.  
>It would be a while before she was able to stand. Now that she could see them, they had suffered too. Purple collected near her knees, painful to even a glancing touch. A nail had been torn off of her left foot, red covered most of it from view. Her eyes grew sluggish as they swept against her form. Scars appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Red lines, cleanly racing straight. She peered under her gown, seeing more.<p>

Caught unawares and shot in the head. Persuaded into a civil conversation and trap. Attracted by _a shiny light and operated on._ Who has done this to you now, Courier?

The slithering curls slowed, her mind becoming sharper with every blink. But still so far away. An echo in her own head. She looked through squinted eyes at her prison. Her once assumed tomb stood across from her. A door to her right. A sign above it. She tried to swivel her sight, to read it, but even then, she could have been reading Latin for all she could see.  
>She had to get up eventually. What difference did it make to get up now? She braced herself, jumping up in a swift motion. She regretted it soon afterwards, as her vision quickly faltered. She was luckily able to grasp the railing before falling. Her red hand held her head, she hissed as the bright sparks returned. As an age passed, her red hand reached for the door, opening it.<br>The door came to life, similar to her tomb. Creaks and groans escaped from it, once again into her aching ears. It led to an elevator.

Will you find your answers there, Courier?

She walked calmly into the centre, hand still hugging the sides. Her legs were still weak, but they hadn't caved. Her eyes pore over this smaller interior, phobos flickering through her thoughts again. At least the ominous blue lights were bright. She saw to the left of her, two buttons. Only the 'up' button was lit. Her red hand pressed it, only to return to the railing after a large jolt rang through the elevator. Her wide eyes flittered around again. Had she done something wrong? Her breathing hitched up, ragged and irregular. Phobos dominated her.  
>Whooshes of air and cracks echoed around her. All of them becoming quieter and slower. She only dared to open her sore eyes as they stopped completely. Alas, with a final, booming clank, the elevator opened, causing her to shy away from the door.<br>When she did finally open her eyes, she was astonished.  
>She was on a balcony, looming over smoking towers, wide canyons and vast slabs of grey concrete. She stumbled to the edge of the blue window, pressing her hands against it, wanting to see more. White buildings were scattered around the expanse, with clutters of debris surrounding them. Pipes sprawled everywhere. Where she could see the horizon, the ground rose up, creating a crater. A near inescapable wall, surrounding this place, and her.<br>She thought hard and long. Even with her remote mind. She focused on one question.

Where are you, Courier?


End file.
